Between not feeling well and trying to coordinate studies and errands I have missed five full days of blogging. However, it gave me time for gathering a little more information on someone I have been reading about and, subsequently, wanting to write about, as well.
Earlier this month a man named Naguib Mahfouz died at the age of 94. Although the magazines that I saw these articles in typically profile several prominant persons for a variety of reasons, the obituaries for this man I had not heard of before he passed away really caught my eye; he was a prolific and reknowned writer. I think it is the connection made by my love of writing and his obvious love of writing, made abundantly clear by the authors of his eulogies, that truly peaked my interest and curiosity. I do not usually wade through obituaries, but I made a definite exception in this case.
It is not that I knew who he was prior to his death or that I had read and truly loved the works he penned, but the tribute, the undisguised admiration bordering on veneration, of the people writing about this man and his life drew me in and made me want to know more about his life and his work. In short Mahfouz was a literary phenomenon, one of an ever decreasing number of exceptional people and writers this world has been blessed to have; he was a classic, a treasure, a king among a dying breed of artists.
What came through most strongly, however, was the respect Mahfouz inspired in those familiar with his works, the admiration almost equivelant to love these same writers managed to convey. It is clear that the name Mahfouz should roll off the tongue in a list with other venerated writers such as Ernest Hemingway, T. S. Elliot, Plath, Lewis, Tolkien, Naguib Mahfouz, yet that does not seem to quite fit. It seems that Mahfouz did not aspire to that sort of fame. He wrote about his land of Egypt and his love for her. He wrote of the people and places, sights and sounds, of his life. It was in his record of these people and this land that his success is measured and not in whose name his follows or precedes. He wrote for love; he wrote because he saw things no one else could describe in quite the same way; he wrote what he carried in his heart and mind; he shared himself and his world with all of us.
I know I will not ever be equal to the ideals of such a writer as Mahfouz, yet I know I will try, hoping to have earned, by the time of my own demise (hopefully at least at the age of 94), a little of the same type of love and admiration that have made me aware of this talented man's life and art. I cannot think of any better or loftier goal for this writer than to manage, somehow, a pale imitation of the contributions of another writer and an honest man; Naguib Mahfouz.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Friday, September 22, 2006
Surreality
When my brother is off of his meds conversations take on a unique and mind-boggling quality that is difficult to communicate to anyone who has not been party to the actual conversation. This, I suspect in large part, is due to having known him his entire life and remembering many of the very rational and intelligent conversations of the past. It is the saddest thing to realize that in the past his greatest asset, his genius-level intelligence, has now evolved into one of his greatest detriments during the times he attempts to live life free from the aid of various anti-psychotic medications. Despite this sobering and grief-causing fact of his life, my brother's very active imagination can still, at times, bring a smile although, now, tempered with sadness. His latest spate has produced some fantasies that, when he is discussing them, obviously amuse him to the point of delight. I do not think I will be able to fully convey all of the texture of his tale, told to me a few minutes ago, but I will try.
According to Mike, there is a group of rather rabid feminists out to get him for an article he wrote for a magazine of dubious reputation when he was about seven years old, or so. The article was on PMS, before it had been officially discovered - he has gotten there first on so many things I have lost count - and the feminists are blaming him for inventing PMS, although he claims that he was only reporting on it and is not responsible for these rabid females' monthly woes. I jokingly told him if he did invent PMS, I just might want to get him, too. He paused for a minute, while I realized I had better let him know I was just joking, before launching into an explanation of PMS that would certainly raise eyebrows in scientific circles, among other things. Think "puerile fantasy" coupled with "male wish fulfillment" and then throw in your best, and most erotic, Greek mythology and you will have some idea of what I ended up listening to before I could excuse myself from the telephone conversation. No wonder the feminists are out to get him! (Just joking)
The records, which have not been very diligently kept, of his various daydreams and delusions, read like a crazy drive through the mind of a sex-crazed demon. Either that or the world's greatest philathropic hero - it waivers depending on his mood and how long he has been medication "free."
When he said the feminists wanted to kill him over the article, I asked him if he was sure they didn't just want to castrate him. He decided, in the blink of an eye, that no, he didn't really think they did want to either kill or castrate him but merely to string him up by the.... let your mind do the rest here.
If he remains relatively stable (as in calm enough), I will see him for lunch sometime in the next few days and, while he is not eating, I am certain to hear more about his rather unique predicaments or scientific ideas - all completely original to him, of course, although I cannot imagine too many people ever vigorously contesting his intellectual ownership of these theories and discoveries nor finding his claims of being in mortal danger very newsworthy.
I must admit, though, that there is something about the thought of roving bands of rabid feminists looking for my brother so they can do *that* to him, that does rather grab the imagination in a rather horrifying way, sort of like diarrhea's hold upon the intestinal tract, threatening yet full of anticipation. What if there really are....
Never mind.
According to Mike, there is a group of rather rabid feminists out to get him for an article he wrote for a magazine of dubious reputation when he was about seven years old, or so. The article was on PMS, before it had been officially discovered - he has gotten there first on so many things I have lost count - and the feminists are blaming him for inventing PMS, although he claims that he was only reporting on it and is not responsible for these rabid females' monthly woes. I jokingly told him if he did invent PMS, I just might want to get him, too. He paused for a minute, while I realized I had better let him know I was just joking, before launching into an explanation of PMS that would certainly raise eyebrows in scientific circles, among other things. Think "puerile fantasy" coupled with "male wish fulfillment" and then throw in your best, and most erotic, Greek mythology and you will have some idea of what I ended up listening to before I could excuse myself from the telephone conversation. No wonder the feminists are out to get him! (Just joking)
The records, which have not been very diligently kept, of his various daydreams and delusions, read like a crazy drive through the mind of a sex-crazed demon. Either that or the world's greatest philathropic hero - it waivers depending on his mood and how long he has been medication "free."
When he said the feminists wanted to kill him over the article, I asked him if he was sure they didn't just want to castrate him. He decided, in the blink of an eye, that no, he didn't really think they did want to either kill or castrate him but merely to string him up by the.... let your mind do the rest here.
If he remains relatively stable (as in calm enough), I will see him for lunch sometime in the next few days and, while he is not eating, I am certain to hear more about his rather unique predicaments or scientific ideas - all completely original to him, of course, although I cannot imagine too many people ever vigorously contesting his intellectual ownership of these theories and discoveries nor finding his claims of being in mortal danger very newsworthy.
I must admit, though, that there is something about the thought of roving bands of rabid feminists looking for my brother so they can do *that* to him, that does rather grab the imagination in a rather horrifying way, sort of like diarrhea's hold upon the intestinal tract, threatening yet full of anticipation. What if there really are....
Never mind.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
A New Product On the Market
..."Drain Opener for the Mind!" Imagine, if all it took to open a mind was a little foaming liquid of some sort..."tilt head and pour into ear; results should become visible within one to six hours." I realize there are many more palatable images for the opening of a mind, but this one seems to me to be the most apt. We have all of this stuff in our heads that seems to bog us down, that keeps us from accomplishing the many necessary things that would help all of us most. It is so much like clots of tangled hair, saliva, and other nameless goo that a drain cleaner seems to be what is called for..."sneeze to flush. If initial application does not clear the clog then reapply after waiting twenty-four hours. Applying cleaner too frequently may damage brain cells! Use extreme caution around children and pets. Do not mix with alcohol or any other mind altering substance. Best if left overnight, if possible. If any of the product should get into the eyes, blink rapidly several times to acclimate to your new and unclogged vision. Although this product is intended for use on minds, its judicious use elsewhere may prove effective for short term unclogging of attitudes, conversations, and occasional cases of the milder sort of writers' block. Not to be used to unblock minds prior to tests, particularly at the college level, or to facilitate study. Ineffective when used for unintended purposes. WILL NOT aid in increasing intelligence or mental dexterity for driving tests, civil service exams, bar exams, etc. as these tests require serious study and hard work, which this product cannot effect. If there are any problems with unexpected toxicity, or in case of accidental overdose, please contact the manufacturer at once. In case of overuse or abuse by teenagers trying to get out of doing their homework, parents should be notified immediately."
Hey, it works for me!
Hey, it works for me!
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
Reflections On What I've Learned from Oprah
A few weeks ago I posted about some of the things I had learned from Oprah, primarily in the realm of what I call "Oprah therapy." The truth is, I've learned a lot more than just that from her show, although I do not find everything else nearly as comforting and helpful. She had one show with two doctors (one with the last name of "Oz") that covered some very intimate details of the inner workings of our human anatomy that even grossed out Oprah a little. I think I understand, to an extent, what she may have been feeling. It really does not comfort me too much to know I pass gas just as much as anybody else or that my stools should be of a particular consistancy and shape, although I now find myself double checking - just to make sure I am within the "healthy" range. These are just not things about myself I ever thought I would end up studying.
Many of her shows deal with tragedies too grim to imagine which, I suppose, means I have really been very fortunate in many ways. This is an important perspective for someone like me who has had to deal with a number of difficulties and family health problems and traumas over the last several years - not to mention what the rest of my family has gone through, too.
I also admit I find very little of interest when Oprah "gabs with the girls" type of thing about "bling," or makeup, or clothes - although hers are quite lovely, or any other subject I consider frivolous. This is not quite a fair attitude when coupled with the fact of her many, many projects that directly aid people in dire need of as much assistance as possible, such as some of the survivors of Hurricane Katrina. Her heart is huge when it comes to lending help to those who seem to have been abandoned or forgotten by the rest of the world. Perhaps a little "girl talk" is to be permitted now and then in light of all the other hard work she accomplishes for the less fortunate members of the human race. She has even taken the part of helping to keep certain types of wildlife gainfully employed as evidenced by her show on coffee. Perhaps, though, they should have mentioned the animal's part in the processing of that hideously expensive brew before they got on the air and had her drinking it without a clue.
Also, to be fair, Oprah is not the only place I have learned unpleasant facts of life. Sometimes your own body is the most informative teacher, as we all have had to deal with Frankenboogers now and then, or what we are sure is an extraordinary amount of gaseous emmission and report, or any one of a number of other "fun" moments that come from living in one of these imperfect machines. There are other sources for this information, too. Belching and farting contests usually take place amongst a select group of friends and participants, but I have stumbled onto them, having had a brother and other male relatives so inclined, and the decibles possible stagger the mind. Skunks also seem a lot more companionable after witnessing one of these events.
There is a lot to be learned from children, too, as they ask their questions as part of their learning processes. The number of euphemisms for various body parts is rather impressive when issuing forth from the lips of an otherwise innocent child. They also take particular joy in sounding out many of these synonyms in very public places - to the joy and amusement of their parents (well, maybe not always). Besides, where else, except from a child, can you learn that your knees look like pigs or that it is NOT alright to poop on the doctor? It is so important to realize that this is not misbehavior, only a child's innate sense of joy at learning about life and themselves, although one might take exception to the aiming practice in the bathroom if there is a small boy in the family.
Many of her shows deal with tragedies too grim to imagine which, I suppose, means I have really been very fortunate in many ways. This is an important perspective for someone like me who has had to deal with a number of difficulties and family health problems and traumas over the last several years - not to mention what the rest of my family has gone through, too.
I also admit I find very little of interest when Oprah "gabs with the girls" type of thing about "bling," or makeup, or clothes - although hers are quite lovely, or any other subject I consider frivolous. This is not quite a fair attitude when coupled with the fact of her many, many projects that directly aid people in dire need of as much assistance as possible, such as some of the survivors of Hurricane Katrina. Her heart is huge when it comes to lending help to those who seem to have been abandoned or forgotten by the rest of the world. Perhaps a little "girl talk" is to be permitted now and then in light of all the other hard work she accomplishes for the less fortunate members of the human race. She has even taken the part of helping to keep certain types of wildlife gainfully employed as evidenced by her show on coffee. Perhaps, though, they should have mentioned the animal's part in the processing of that hideously expensive brew before they got on the air and had her drinking it without a clue.
Also, to be fair, Oprah is not the only place I have learned unpleasant facts of life. Sometimes your own body is the most informative teacher, as we all have had to deal with Frankenboogers now and then, or what we are sure is an extraordinary amount of gaseous emmission and report, or any one of a number of other "fun" moments that come from living in one of these imperfect machines. There are other sources for this information, too. Belching and farting contests usually take place amongst a select group of friends and participants, but I have stumbled onto them, having had a brother and other male relatives so inclined, and the decibles possible stagger the mind. Skunks also seem a lot more companionable after witnessing one of these events.
There is a lot to be learned from children, too, as they ask their questions as part of their learning processes. The number of euphemisms for various body parts is rather impressive when issuing forth from the lips of an otherwise innocent child. They also take particular joy in sounding out many of these synonyms in very public places - to the joy and amusement of their parents (well, maybe not always). Besides, where else, except from a child, can you learn that your knees look like pigs or that it is NOT alright to poop on the doctor? It is so important to realize that this is not misbehavior, only a child's innate sense of joy at learning about life and themselves, although one might take exception to the aiming practice in the bathroom if there is a small boy in the family.
Monday, September 18, 2006
Come on, Izzlebug! You can do this!
Taking a master's level course, even on line, can be quite challenging. I finally managed to bridge the mind fog and do some thinking, a task not to be sneered at, and to get, and keep, caught up for the second week of class. I now have two very lengthy articles to read and one short critique to write before tomorrow at midnight. I will also be helping my nephew with his paper which has suddenly become a more intense situation as the due date has been moved up! I know from past experience that we will get all of this done but in the midst of it, everything feels too hectic, too pressured. We have survived worse.
The computer desk sits in a small patch of sunlight which, at least today, is not too hot. I look out the window at our forest/back yard and think of all the life and activity that must be happening out there, but see little evidence of it save for the still very green foliage of the most determined of our bushes, grasses, and young trees. It's lovely to gaze upon but hell on the septic system. Tit for tat, I guess.
Last night I saw some of our bats eating the last of this seasons bugs and mosquitoes and wondered where bats go in the winter time. I really don't know, so I will try to find out. It seems like my brain wants to explode sometimes because of all of the stuff I keep cramming into it but then I discover some seemingly trivial little something I cannot recall ever having known anything about and it makes the burden, although not insignificant, seem so small somehow. It may not be too important to world history to know where bats spend their winters, but it is important to the bats and, now, I would like to know, too.
My dream yard, if I ever realize it, will include bat houses and butterfly houses, as well as squirrel feeding stations so they will (hopefully) not munch the baby birds. I will also have fodder for hummingbirds and insect eaters, as well as all of the native species that seem to thrive on seeds, suet, and air. There will also be bathing stations for the more hygenically minded avian friends, and glass viewing balls just for the fun of it. Roses, roses, roses, all fragrant varieties, lilacs, lilacs, lilacs in every possible hue of white, pink and lavender, spring bulbs -every imaginable kind and color - and a cutting garden. Perhaps even a bee hive or two, but that will depend on how well able to care for them I am at the time.
My favorite birds are the ones most likely to winter over in this area as long as we can provide them with food and water; juncos and chickadees and cardinals, sparrows and bluejays and starlings. Spring will bring the return of the bright golden finches, orioles, and robins with their polished red breasts. These are the more usual residents of our yard during the course of a year, along with the feisty little red squirrel that has occupied the white pines out in front for several years now. He controls the grey squirrel incursions into the yard, but does not seem to have a lot to say about chipmunks, which tend to stay on the ground, in their burrows, and up our drain pipes. I strongly suspect we house most, if not all, of these creatures for the winter in our attic unless we just have extremely loud and heavy mice who do invite themselves in during the inclement weather. I think I may have even seen a very small rat at one time, but am hoping it is not a species that has decided to join our little social circle here.
There have been times when the "wildlife" indoors has competed for our attention with that in the yard. We have had incursions of book-eating beetles, clothes-munching moths, very fat, comfortable mice in places mice should not even know about, various molds and mildews, and Heaven only knows what we have yet to discover! I suppose I should consider it merely being a part of the food chain, etc. but, this year, if those mice eat anything else of mine I am calling in a rodent hit person and taking the little buggers out! (Or, at least, the hit person will.)
Such is the current cycle of life at mouse/moth/mold/bug/rodent/bird/etc. central.
As Summer passes into Autumn I still find myself longing for a vegetable garden and a kitchen and storage area sufficient for dealing with all of the wonderful and fresh produce I long to have at my fingertips. My Grandmother once let me keep a small garden at her house and it was so rewarding to have pie pumpkins, golden acorn squashes, pickling cucumbers and big, blue Hubbard squashes to keep and to share. No other vegetables ever tasted quite so satisfyingly good and I am convinced the efforts put into the growing and preparing of them boosted the nutritional value, too. She also taught me to can vegetables, make pickles and jams and jellies and so much more. My Grandmother and a vegetable garden will always remain juxtaposed in my mind for the rest of my life. She also shared her banana bread recipe with me and taught me how to knit and crochet, all of which seemed very important at the time and that still bring a great deal of satisfaction to me today.
If anything should happen to still the machines that now make our clothing and pre-prepare all of our food, I know I will at least have the knowledge to survive and to pass on to anyone else who may be interested in learning how it all was handled before the industrial age landed upon humanity. I only hope I get to learn to spin and weave before I am too old to really enjoy learning those two skills. There is something extremely satisfying in knowing how to get a thing done even when there is no need or opportunity to use such skills. Knowledge is power, so maybe I feel powerful knowing these things, I really cannot say for certain, but the satisfaction of knowing is certainly tangible to me in the present tense.
Perhaps it is just the onset of harvest weather that has directed all of these thoughts, just as it has created within me a certain mild melancholy. I will probably go looking for an apple orchard with short trees that is proximal to a pumpkin field so I can indulge in my "Autumnal Mania" for a day. That seems to be the likely "cure" for this particular ailment and it will also be delicious for the next week or so, as we consume the fruits of my very mild labors.
The computer desk sits in a small patch of sunlight which, at least today, is not too hot. I look out the window at our forest/back yard and think of all the life and activity that must be happening out there, but see little evidence of it save for the still very green foliage of the most determined of our bushes, grasses, and young trees. It's lovely to gaze upon but hell on the septic system. Tit for tat, I guess.
Last night I saw some of our bats eating the last of this seasons bugs and mosquitoes and wondered where bats go in the winter time. I really don't know, so I will try to find out. It seems like my brain wants to explode sometimes because of all of the stuff I keep cramming into it but then I discover some seemingly trivial little something I cannot recall ever having known anything about and it makes the burden, although not insignificant, seem so small somehow. It may not be too important to world history to know where bats spend their winters, but it is important to the bats and, now, I would like to know, too.
My dream yard, if I ever realize it, will include bat houses and butterfly houses, as well as squirrel feeding stations so they will (hopefully) not munch the baby birds. I will also have fodder for hummingbirds and insect eaters, as well as all of the native species that seem to thrive on seeds, suet, and air. There will also be bathing stations for the more hygenically minded avian friends, and glass viewing balls just for the fun of it. Roses, roses, roses, all fragrant varieties, lilacs, lilacs, lilacs in every possible hue of white, pink and lavender, spring bulbs -every imaginable kind and color - and a cutting garden. Perhaps even a bee hive or two, but that will depend on how well able to care for them I am at the time.
My favorite birds are the ones most likely to winter over in this area as long as we can provide them with food and water; juncos and chickadees and cardinals, sparrows and bluejays and starlings. Spring will bring the return of the bright golden finches, orioles, and robins with their polished red breasts. These are the more usual residents of our yard during the course of a year, along with the feisty little red squirrel that has occupied the white pines out in front for several years now. He controls the grey squirrel incursions into the yard, but does not seem to have a lot to say about chipmunks, which tend to stay on the ground, in their burrows, and up our drain pipes. I strongly suspect we house most, if not all, of these creatures for the winter in our attic unless we just have extremely loud and heavy mice who do invite themselves in during the inclement weather. I think I may have even seen a very small rat at one time, but am hoping it is not a species that has decided to join our little social circle here.
There have been times when the "wildlife" indoors has competed for our attention with that in the yard. We have had incursions of book-eating beetles, clothes-munching moths, very fat, comfortable mice in places mice should not even know about, various molds and mildews, and Heaven only knows what we have yet to discover! I suppose I should consider it merely being a part of the food chain, etc. but, this year, if those mice eat anything else of mine I am calling in a rodent hit person and taking the little buggers out! (Or, at least, the hit person will.)
Such is the current cycle of life at mouse/moth/mold/bug/rodent/bird/etc. central.
As Summer passes into Autumn I still find myself longing for a vegetable garden and a kitchen and storage area sufficient for dealing with all of the wonderful and fresh produce I long to have at my fingertips. My Grandmother once let me keep a small garden at her house and it was so rewarding to have pie pumpkins, golden acorn squashes, pickling cucumbers and big, blue Hubbard squashes to keep and to share. No other vegetables ever tasted quite so satisfyingly good and I am convinced the efforts put into the growing and preparing of them boosted the nutritional value, too. She also taught me to can vegetables, make pickles and jams and jellies and so much more. My Grandmother and a vegetable garden will always remain juxtaposed in my mind for the rest of my life. She also shared her banana bread recipe with me and taught me how to knit and crochet, all of which seemed very important at the time and that still bring a great deal of satisfaction to me today.
If anything should happen to still the machines that now make our clothing and pre-prepare all of our food, I know I will at least have the knowledge to survive and to pass on to anyone else who may be interested in learning how it all was handled before the industrial age landed upon humanity. I only hope I get to learn to spin and weave before I am too old to really enjoy learning those two skills. There is something extremely satisfying in knowing how to get a thing done even when there is no need or opportunity to use such skills. Knowledge is power, so maybe I feel powerful knowing these things, I really cannot say for certain, but the satisfaction of knowing is certainly tangible to me in the present tense.
Perhaps it is just the onset of harvest weather that has directed all of these thoughts, just as it has created within me a certain mild melancholy. I will probably go looking for an apple orchard with short trees that is proximal to a pumpkin field so I can indulge in my "Autumnal Mania" for a day. That seems to be the likely "cure" for this particular ailment and it will also be delicious for the next week or so, as we consume the fruits of my very mild labors.
Friday, September 15, 2006
Familiar Friends
It is so good to be back in touch with people I used to know when I was younger. It is like having the best of two different worlds, familiarity and new possibilities all wrapped into one great bundle. It seems like too many of us become ensnared in our middle-ages by the cares and burdens we were so blissfully unaware of during our youths, and to be able to enjoy an interlude of renewed acquaintances and revisiting memories common amongst a particular group is part of what makes it so wonderful. I am looking forward to seeing people and hearing about their lives as well as sharing parts of my own, and I can't help feeling it will be a really good thing for all of us - all of the good and just enough of the trials to keep things from seeming too unreal.
Also, perhaps because I have not given it that much thought until recently, I find myself more and more impressed with my former high school classmates. We have lawyers and activists, artists and "the rest of us," and it is, for the most part, a very good thing. We are a great group of motivated and concerned individuals who are in touch with the world around us and connected to other people in very positive and wonderful ways. I just hope all of the offspring of our group ends up on the same, or an even higher, plain when they are our ages.
I feel I have changed so much from the teenager I was to the woman I am now. Then I was severely depressed and too introverted for really being able to successfully form solid and lasting relationships but, somehow despite this, certain very positive aspects of many of those relationships still remain. It is a very unique thing to realize that a friend is still a friend even though time, experience, and circumstance have altered the ground rules a bit.
In less than a month I am hoping to be at my high school reunion for at least one of the events planned for that weekend. I am hoping the sight of the older versions of my former classmates (and theirs of the older version of me) will, in the future, excite just as much nostalgia and fond memories as much of what is in our senior year book does now for those years when we were so young, so naive, yet so ready to take and make our places in the world.
I am hoping for new good memories to take home with me to help sustain me until our next class reunion in ten years. I am hoping that I will be able to keep more in touch this time as email and voice mail make that much more possible, and I am hoping that by dragging my sweetie-pie along (if possible) it will help him understand me and where I come from a little better.
I also hope that, whatever the "class prank" may turn out to be, if we instigate one at all, that it is very well planned, totally within the bounds of the law, and good humored more than so outrageous no one else enjoys it. That, however, will take a great deal of some very serious thought and pre-planning.
High School Reunion
It's really good to see you
After all our years apart.
Who new when we were younger
We'd get to be such "old farts?"
But here we are together
Though it's been thirty-something years,
A short but special time
To share hearts and lives and tears
And joys and sorrows overcome
And tragedies averted.
(I think some of the boys from class
May still be definitely perverted!)
We will look out of older, wiser eyes
But know we're only those same teenagers
In a slightly wrinkled guise.
Lives have changed and hearts have grown
Many have children almost ready
To go off on their own.
Some we've lost, but others regained,
Some are too remote,
While the rest remain.
We will laugh and, maybe, cry.
We will gloat (hopefully privately!).
We will all compare our notes
Almost as if for a test - and, gee! -
Maybe we could take a test
And discuss the results at dinner.
The highest score would not decide
Who gets to be the winner.
Perhaps what should determine
Results is mutual affection
That way we'd all come in "first"
Or with, at least, an "honorable mention!"
Also, perhaps because I have not given it that much thought until recently, I find myself more and more impressed with my former high school classmates. We have lawyers and activists, artists and "the rest of us," and it is, for the most part, a very good thing. We are a great group of motivated and concerned individuals who are in touch with the world around us and connected to other people in very positive and wonderful ways. I just hope all of the offspring of our group ends up on the same, or an even higher, plain when they are our ages.
I feel I have changed so much from the teenager I was to the woman I am now. Then I was severely depressed and too introverted for really being able to successfully form solid and lasting relationships but, somehow despite this, certain very positive aspects of many of those relationships still remain. It is a very unique thing to realize that a friend is still a friend even though time, experience, and circumstance have altered the ground rules a bit.
In less than a month I am hoping to be at my high school reunion for at least one of the events planned for that weekend. I am hoping the sight of the older versions of my former classmates (and theirs of the older version of me) will, in the future, excite just as much nostalgia and fond memories as much of what is in our senior year book does now for those years when we were so young, so naive, yet so ready to take and make our places in the world.
I am hoping for new good memories to take home with me to help sustain me until our next class reunion in ten years. I am hoping that I will be able to keep more in touch this time as email and voice mail make that much more possible, and I am hoping that by dragging my sweetie-pie along (if possible) it will help him understand me and where I come from a little better.
I also hope that, whatever the "class prank" may turn out to be, if we instigate one at all, that it is very well planned, totally within the bounds of the law, and good humored more than so outrageous no one else enjoys it. That, however, will take a great deal of some very serious thought and pre-planning.
High School Reunion
It's really good to see you
After all our years apart.
Who new when we were younger
We'd get to be such "old farts?"
But here we are together
Though it's been thirty-something years,
A short but special time
To share hearts and lives and tears
And joys and sorrows overcome
And tragedies averted.
(I think some of the boys from class
May still be definitely perverted!)
We will look out of older, wiser eyes
But know we're only those same teenagers
In a slightly wrinkled guise.
Lives have changed and hearts have grown
Many have children almost ready
To go off on their own.
Some we've lost, but others regained,
Some are too remote,
While the rest remain.
We will laugh and, maybe, cry.
We will gloat (hopefully privately!).
We will all compare our notes
Almost as if for a test - and, gee! -
Maybe we could take a test
And discuss the results at dinner.
The highest score would not decide
Who gets to be the winner.
Perhaps what should determine
Results is mutual affection
That way we'd all come in "first"
Or with, at least, an "honorable mention!"
Thursday, September 14, 2006
Netting Herring In the Run
As a preface to the following poem I think there are some things the readers need to keep in mind. For one, netting herring in the fish run makes the herring very easy to catch in vast quantity, but it is very illegal and interferes with the natural spawning cycle of an entire species. This poem is also very much in its transitional phase and has areas I am aware need explaining and work. I will get to the task as I am able to manage it but feel free to comment or ask questions if you're so inclined.
Also, this poem was written as a protest to "fixed" poetry contests that pre-pick the winners and are "judged" by the professors of those same winners. There are also many university sponsored poetry "contests" that cost a bundle of money to enter, in addition to the contests being fixed. This poem is the result of my research into such contests and the types of people who run them or endorse them. It is not intended as a general comment about any of the schools I have or will attend and is specific only to those institutions that make money off of aspiring, and naive, poets and writers by lying to them about their chances of winning while divesting them of their hard won earnings.
Netting Herring In the Run
There are too many poets,
Too many geniuses of verse,
No one stands out anymore.
It is the "same old, same old"
Of college life and English classes,
All held on the first day of the month
When there are bills to pay,
And no one wants to say anything
Very pleasant because someone might
Rip off the verses of their next poem.
Who will win the day and,
Forty years after they are dead,
Come back to haunt college students everywhere
Who are presently wondering how they will
Ever get ahead when all the professors they know
Publish their own poetry in
Dusty, care-worn journals,
Pages brittle with innuendo and subterfuge and, therefore,
Do not know where to send their students,
With pats on the back, to see their poems in print,
Because the students are not familiar
With the contest judges
And cannot send secret messages
That will make them the favorite student;
The next Lowell or Whitman?
They shy away from Sexton and Plath because
They killed themselves,
And the students sigh
And wonder, "How?"
Not understanding that you die before, when you
Incise your soul and drain all of
Its fluids away, down the stained morgue sink spotted with
Bits and pieces of human poems and hair
That clog the disposal and make someone
Have to insert a mind into dark recesses
Of grit and gore that horrify their thoughts.
Knowing the autopsy is in the latest book,
You can see the organs as they fail
And finally understand that ending
Was always going to be easier than
Staying around for the coroner's report.
Poetry, that never
Sees light of day, never
Breathes outside air, existing only in a
Rarified oxygen-miasma sublimating from academia's
Sullied crypt;
Unchaste desire and aspirations
Are interred in cold, moldy sepulchers.
Fame-lust gone awry, souring even more
With the approach of impending
Graduation doom.
College journals make apropos shrouds
For hopeful poets waiting in
Wings of static-time platform stages
Suspended in space outside of normalcy.
Walking woodenly, they
Approach gods ponderously deciding the fate
Of tethered verses and saddled instincts,
Bridling at the suggestion they
Are less than human, when all they
Have done is too human for
Morality plays to vaunt.
They sip sour milk and lemon juice cocktails with pickled onions
And spit vitriole onto the floor waiting
Until the new James Joyce pens another
"Ulysses" for tired minds to caress listlessly.
Yellow, age-worn teeth, still sharp enough
To tear out a heart or two, grind,
Masticating porridge souls into oblivion.
Wrinkled, weathered lusts, leathery and ugly,
Compromise in the dust under haunted library tables,
In plain sight of stagnant, emotionally skeletal students
Attending their schools of worldliness
Accredited by those who wallow there.
Pits of vipers too tired to hiss
Life into cleaning the place up,
Too comfortable in the
Warm cesspools allocated to them
For the manufacturing of soporific tomes
Into sleeping pills for tired minds;
A delirium of self-interest, boredom and tedious content,
Too thick to wade out of, pasty with dollars and cents,
Frying in a supernova of gazes from
Public people there to watch the
Animals in cages,
Hoping the bears will come out
Of hibernation soon so children can see,
Before the zoo locks its
Iron-clad attitudes and
Buries itself in dust, that all of its animals are extinct.
Dishonesty is an excellent preservative,
But it smells like rotting fish.
Also, this poem was written as a protest to "fixed" poetry contests that pre-pick the winners and are "judged" by the professors of those same winners. There are also many university sponsored poetry "contests" that cost a bundle of money to enter, in addition to the contests being fixed. This poem is the result of my research into such contests and the types of people who run them or endorse them. It is not intended as a general comment about any of the schools I have or will attend and is specific only to those institutions that make money off of aspiring, and naive, poets and writers by lying to them about their chances of winning while divesting them of their hard won earnings.
Netting Herring In the Run
There are too many poets,
Too many geniuses of verse,
No one stands out anymore.
It is the "same old, same old"
Of college life and English classes,
All held on the first day of the month
When there are bills to pay,
And no one wants to say anything
Very pleasant because someone might
Rip off the verses of their next poem.
Who will win the day and,
Forty years after they are dead,
Come back to haunt college students everywhere
Who are presently wondering how they will
Ever get ahead when all the professors they know
Publish their own poetry in
Dusty, care-worn journals,
Pages brittle with innuendo and subterfuge and, therefore,
Do not know where to send their students,
With pats on the back, to see their poems in print,
Because the students are not familiar
With the contest judges
And cannot send secret messages
That will make them the favorite student;
The next Lowell or Whitman?
They shy away from Sexton and Plath because
They killed themselves,
And the students sigh
And wonder, "How?"
Not understanding that you die before, when you
Incise your soul and drain all of
Its fluids away, down the stained morgue sink spotted with
Bits and pieces of human poems and hair
That clog the disposal and make someone
Have to insert a mind into dark recesses
Of grit and gore that horrify their thoughts.
Knowing the autopsy is in the latest book,
You can see the organs as they fail
And finally understand that ending
Was always going to be easier than
Staying around for the coroner's report.
Poetry, that never
Sees light of day, never
Breathes outside air, existing only in a
Rarified oxygen-miasma sublimating from academia's
Sullied crypt;
Unchaste desire and aspirations
Are interred in cold, moldy sepulchers.
Fame-lust gone awry, souring even more
With the approach of impending
Graduation doom.
College journals make apropos shrouds
For hopeful poets waiting in
Wings of static-time platform stages
Suspended in space outside of normalcy.
Walking woodenly, they
Approach gods ponderously deciding the fate
Of tethered verses and saddled instincts,
Bridling at the suggestion they
Are less than human, when all they
Have done is too human for
Morality plays to vaunt.
They sip sour milk and lemon juice cocktails with pickled onions
And spit vitriole onto the floor waiting
Until the new James Joyce pens another
"Ulysses" for tired minds to caress listlessly.
Yellow, age-worn teeth, still sharp enough
To tear out a heart or two, grind,
Masticating porridge souls into oblivion.
Wrinkled, weathered lusts, leathery and ugly,
Compromise in the dust under haunted library tables,
In plain sight of stagnant, emotionally skeletal students
Attending their schools of worldliness
Accredited by those who wallow there.
Pits of vipers too tired to hiss
Life into cleaning the place up,
Too comfortable in the
Warm cesspools allocated to them
For the manufacturing of soporific tomes
Into sleeping pills for tired minds;
A delirium of self-interest, boredom and tedious content,
Too thick to wade out of, pasty with dollars and cents,
Frying in a supernova of gazes from
Public people there to watch the
Animals in cages,
Hoping the bears will come out
Of hibernation soon so children can see,
Before the zoo locks its
Iron-clad attitudes and
Buries itself in dust, that all of its animals are extinct.
Dishonesty is an excellent preservative,
But it smells like rotting fish.
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
This I Believe
After much soul searching and thought, I have decided to write about something that occurred in my life many years ago. This "thing" that happened influenced or effected every facet of my life, how I have chosen to live it now, my attitudes and perspectives on God, basically everything.
I was still quite young when I moved out of my parents' home and in with my grandmother, who was helping me make the transition from perpetual teenager to adult. I lived with her for three months before moving into temporary housing provided for single women by my employer, as I found full-time work within that amount of time. It was after moving out that I began to seek the fellowship of other Christians, although it had been sometime since I had attended any church on a regular basis. I was very young, frightened of life in general, very naive and vulnerable. Initially things went well and, although I had some difficulties due to issues I had not dealt with from my past, I found a room mate and moved into the apartment she had been living in for some time prior to our meeting one another through another young woman from the church I attended. We each attended different churches, but things seemed to be on a fairly even keel. She was older than I was and worked odd hours at the local hospital as a nurse.
To say I was ill prepared to be out on my own would be an understatement. My Dad had tried to teach me some useful skills he thought I might need living on my own so I knew how to use a hammer and screwdriver, unstop a toilet, plus a few other basics that have become lost in my memory somewhere. (Changing tires and putting oil in the car would come after I actually had a car.) It was not in the manual skills area then, for which I was so ill prepared, it was in the taking care of my mental health, the knowing how to make friends, to form and pursue new interests, to develop hobbies, all of the things my parents had helped me with my entire life until that point and, for whatever reason, I was paralyzed when it came to getting out and having fun.
My room mate, God bless her, realized that for a young person in a college town I spent an awful lot of time alone at home. Yes, I read and watched TV, kept up with the news for the most part, called relatives and former friends and tried to keep in touch. I also joined a small bible study group from the church I was trying so hard to fit into that met regularly each week and I would, with my room mate's consent, even host that group every so often on the night during the week that we usually met.
I was hardly a hermit but I lived like a little old lady, afraid to take too many steps into a large and threatening world. My room mate decided to take action and, as a result of her caring and concern, we spent many very enjoyable hours going to interesting restaurants, museums, on hikes, out canoeing, and spending one lovely weekend at her parents' house on Jenny Lake in upstate New York. I hold her responsible for helping a very depressed young woman see enough value in living life that it helped keep her from attempting suicide many years later during a nervous breakdown.
Probably due to problems resulting from depression, things did not stay pleasant very long in the church I was attending. Relationships I had hoped would last tattered and dissolved into the storm of every day life, which merely added to the burden of my mental state. No matter how hard I tried, I felt I was not "getting it right" and so fell into a deeper and deeper pit so firmly entrenched in my own mind I thought it was "normal." I will always remember what it was like to be in a roomful of other people, all feeling extremely close to one another at some special moment, and feeling almost completely isolated; seperate and strange, like I did not belong there or anywhere else. In retrospect I find it odd that I should have been so severely depressed in that my parents did not kick me out of the house, I moved out because I wanted to and, with my grandmother's help, was able to do just that in a reasonable amount of time. I had not been beaten or neglected as a child, I was not physically ill, there was little, I thought during that time, to have contributed to the depth and intensity of depression I felt all the time. What was so wrong in my life that I was almost drowning in a misery I was very hard pressed to even begin communicating to anyone else with any degree of success?
Again, in retrospect, I can now understand many of the issues that directly contributed to the state I was in as well as not being an individual who was well suited to living in the "real" world when I had spent the better part of my teenage years peopling my mind with heroes and kind strangers who were always welcoming and loving. Perhaps, when thinking about the mental illness of my brother, and then my own, it was the difference in our fantasies that made such a difference in the outcome of our lives as we matured into adults.
For Mike, the world was a place of monsters and enemies and he spent much of his time dodging snow plows in the winter or wandering down almost deserted roads as it was starting to snow. If it were not for the vigilance of several police officers I am convinced Mike would have died of exposure at a very young age. Knowing all of this about my brother added fuel to the deadness in my soul and mind, of course, but also illustrates to me that, because I was continually seeking hope or even a reason for hope, and poor Mike was always on the defensive against the forces he felt were trying to kill him - primarily generated by the types of fantasies/delusions he experienced - I have been able to come to this place where, though not perfect, I survive and even thrive once in a while while Mike is still trapped by his own mind - forever a prisoner of those ferocious and frightening fantasies.
I have a boyfriend and our cats, my father and step-mother, my grandmother and two sisters, and my niece and nephew to appreciate. I have good and thoughtful friends and I am better able to be a friend now than I was all those years ago when I first moved out on my own. Most of these things, however, were not at the forefront of my thoughts at that time, and many were buried so deeply, locked where I could not access or understand them or confide them in anyone, as they made their painful contributions to my life. I do not believe that I would have had a nervous breakdown of the intensity and trauma of the one I experienced had it not been due to the combined effect of pressures and trials from all three areas that then made up my entire life; family, church, and work.
Although there were some very fickle "Christians" in the mix I had been cared for by too many genuinely concerned friends and that helped negate the effects of the "bad" acquaintances.
Loving someone, whether you are able to persist through the emotionally draining and frustrating experiences of being a friend to a mentally ill person or not, really does make a significant difference in the life of such an individual, provided they are able to overcome their difficulties and survive the many attempts their own hearts and minds continuously make upon their lives. Depression is a self-destruction that persists within someone's mind and heart often despite, and always at odds with, every effort to the contrary from friends and family. It is only when an individual is able to say to themselves, "Enough!" that the true rewards for all of the love and heartaches so willingly given as long as possible, by the many people willing to do so, that the true results of such efforts can be seen.
I wish I could let the many people who loved me and tried so hard to believe in me know, today, how very grateful I am that God brought them into my life - even the ones who do not believe in God - and that I know with every fiber of my being that I would not be here today if it were not for each of them and the love and attention they gave me, although they probably ended up so burnt out, so disillusioned, so weary, that they could not imagine the day would come when I was able to be a friend who was capable of truly giving and not just continue being a basket case who seemed unable to return any of the love given to me. Well, guess what? Your love and efforts worked, here I am, and I hope you somehow find my blog and get to read this, so you will know. (P.S. I love you - still.)
Despite the pseudo-Chrisians that were living in the midst of the true believers in the church I attended, despite the indifference and spite of many others of those same believers, despite the gossip and unrealistic, unreasonable demands made by certain people I was supposed to be able to trust utterly, despite my family's trials and despairs over our own problems and losses, despite my own personal faults and failures, I have survived and continue to do so, with a great deal of satisfaction, thank you.
I am going to include a list from that time ("naughty" and "nice") of peoples' first names in the hopes they may someday happen across this rather humble little spot and finally know how very grateful I am to them and how very much I miss them and still care for them, or to the contrary :-)
"Nice"
Monie
Bob and Sharon (despite everything)
Debbie and Eric (because you dared and cared)
Robin (my former room mate)
Debby (who saved me from the skunk)
Erika (who went canoeing with us)
Nancy and Shannon and the two boys
Lee and Greg
Carol (who collected stamps)
Teri
Bob (who talked to me about sushi) and Lynn
- all the others whose names and faces have faded over the ensuing years, but whose souls still shine brightly and continue to light my way
"Naughty"
John (who should have known better than to ask someone to do the things you expected of me - Shame on you!)
Marie and Betsy (who were never really my friends)
Marina (who was a troubled soul in her own right)
Laura (who was also troubled but drew me a beautiful Christmas card one year)
Karen (who had a very hard time, too)
- and all of the creeps who said one thing and then did another to me despite what they continued to profess afterwards - Shame!)
I really hope everybody on both of my lists is well and happy - well, maybe not that happy for the "naughty" list - and I certainly do not wish any of them any evil or pain in their lives although life, being what it is, provides those things despite best wishes and efforts.
There is still so much to tell about those years but it has to wait for the resurfacing of old memories and my ability to find some way to express it all appropriately before it can be told. Until then, the tales are silent and the pen paralyzed in a haze of forgetfulness and the desire to, finally, leave all of this permanently behind.
I was still quite young when I moved out of my parents' home and in with my grandmother, who was helping me make the transition from perpetual teenager to adult. I lived with her for three months before moving into temporary housing provided for single women by my employer, as I found full-time work within that amount of time. It was after moving out that I began to seek the fellowship of other Christians, although it had been sometime since I had attended any church on a regular basis. I was very young, frightened of life in general, very naive and vulnerable. Initially things went well and, although I had some difficulties due to issues I had not dealt with from my past, I found a room mate and moved into the apartment she had been living in for some time prior to our meeting one another through another young woman from the church I attended. We each attended different churches, but things seemed to be on a fairly even keel. She was older than I was and worked odd hours at the local hospital as a nurse.
To say I was ill prepared to be out on my own would be an understatement. My Dad had tried to teach me some useful skills he thought I might need living on my own so I knew how to use a hammer and screwdriver, unstop a toilet, plus a few other basics that have become lost in my memory somewhere. (Changing tires and putting oil in the car would come after I actually had a car.) It was not in the manual skills area then, for which I was so ill prepared, it was in the taking care of my mental health, the knowing how to make friends, to form and pursue new interests, to develop hobbies, all of the things my parents had helped me with my entire life until that point and, for whatever reason, I was paralyzed when it came to getting out and having fun.
My room mate, God bless her, realized that for a young person in a college town I spent an awful lot of time alone at home. Yes, I read and watched TV, kept up with the news for the most part, called relatives and former friends and tried to keep in touch. I also joined a small bible study group from the church I was trying so hard to fit into that met regularly each week and I would, with my room mate's consent, even host that group every so often on the night during the week that we usually met.
I was hardly a hermit but I lived like a little old lady, afraid to take too many steps into a large and threatening world. My room mate decided to take action and, as a result of her caring and concern, we spent many very enjoyable hours going to interesting restaurants, museums, on hikes, out canoeing, and spending one lovely weekend at her parents' house on Jenny Lake in upstate New York. I hold her responsible for helping a very depressed young woman see enough value in living life that it helped keep her from attempting suicide many years later during a nervous breakdown.
Probably due to problems resulting from depression, things did not stay pleasant very long in the church I was attending. Relationships I had hoped would last tattered and dissolved into the storm of every day life, which merely added to the burden of my mental state. No matter how hard I tried, I felt I was not "getting it right" and so fell into a deeper and deeper pit so firmly entrenched in my own mind I thought it was "normal." I will always remember what it was like to be in a roomful of other people, all feeling extremely close to one another at some special moment, and feeling almost completely isolated; seperate and strange, like I did not belong there or anywhere else. In retrospect I find it odd that I should have been so severely depressed in that my parents did not kick me out of the house, I moved out because I wanted to and, with my grandmother's help, was able to do just that in a reasonable amount of time. I had not been beaten or neglected as a child, I was not physically ill, there was little, I thought during that time, to have contributed to the depth and intensity of depression I felt all the time. What was so wrong in my life that I was almost drowning in a misery I was very hard pressed to even begin communicating to anyone else with any degree of success?
Again, in retrospect, I can now understand many of the issues that directly contributed to the state I was in as well as not being an individual who was well suited to living in the "real" world when I had spent the better part of my teenage years peopling my mind with heroes and kind strangers who were always welcoming and loving. Perhaps, when thinking about the mental illness of my brother, and then my own, it was the difference in our fantasies that made such a difference in the outcome of our lives as we matured into adults.
For Mike, the world was a place of monsters and enemies and he spent much of his time dodging snow plows in the winter or wandering down almost deserted roads as it was starting to snow. If it were not for the vigilance of several police officers I am convinced Mike would have died of exposure at a very young age. Knowing all of this about my brother added fuel to the deadness in my soul and mind, of course, but also illustrates to me that, because I was continually seeking hope or even a reason for hope, and poor Mike was always on the defensive against the forces he felt were trying to kill him - primarily generated by the types of fantasies/delusions he experienced - I have been able to come to this place where, though not perfect, I survive and even thrive once in a while while Mike is still trapped by his own mind - forever a prisoner of those ferocious and frightening fantasies.
I have a boyfriend and our cats, my father and step-mother, my grandmother and two sisters, and my niece and nephew to appreciate. I have good and thoughtful friends and I am better able to be a friend now than I was all those years ago when I first moved out on my own. Most of these things, however, were not at the forefront of my thoughts at that time, and many were buried so deeply, locked where I could not access or understand them or confide them in anyone, as they made their painful contributions to my life. I do not believe that I would have had a nervous breakdown of the intensity and trauma of the one I experienced had it not been due to the combined effect of pressures and trials from all three areas that then made up my entire life; family, church, and work.
Although there were some very fickle "Christians" in the mix I had been cared for by too many genuinely concerned friends and that helped negate the effects of the "bad" acquaintances.
Loving someone, whether you are able to persist through the emotionally draining and frustrating experiences of being a friend to a mentally ill person or not, really does make a significant difference in the life of such an individual, provided they are able to overcome their difficulties and survive the many attempts their own hearts and minds continuously make upon their lives. Depression is a self-destruction that persists within someone's mind and heart often despite, and always at odds with, every effort to the contrary from friends and family. It is only when an individual is able to say to themselves, "Enough!" that the true rewards for all of the love and heartaches so willingly given as long as possible, by the many people willing to do so, that the true results of such efforts can be seen.
I wish I could let the many people who loved me and tried so hard to believe in me know, today, how very grateful I am that God brought them into my life - even the ones who do not believe in God - and that I know with every fiber of my being that I would not be here today if it were not for each of them and the love and attention they gave me, although they probably ended up so burnt out, so disillusioned, so weary, that they could not imagine the day would come when I was able to be a friend who was capable of truly giving and not just continue being a basket case who seemed unable to return any of the love given to me. Well, guess what? Your love and efforts worked, here I am, and I hope you somehow find my blog and get to read this, so you will know. (P.S. I love you - still.)
Despite the pseudo-Chrisians that were living in the midst of the true believers in the church I attended, despite the indifference and spite of many others of those same believers, despite the gossip and unrealistic, unreasonable demands made by certain people I was supposed to be able to trust utterly, despite my family's trials and despairs over our own problems and losses, despite my own personal faults and failures, I have survived and continue to do so, with a great deal of satisfaction, thank you.
I am going to include a list from that time ("naughty" and "nice") of peoples' first names in the hopes they may someday happen across this rather humble little spot and finally know how very grateful I am to them and how very much I miss them and still care for them, or to the contrary :-)
"Nice"
Monie
Bob and Sharon (despite everything)
Debbie and Eric (because you dared and cared)
Robin (my former room mate)
Debby (who saved me from the skunk)
Erika (who went canoeing with us)
Nancy and Shannon and the two boys
Lee and Greg
Carol (who collected stamps)
Teri
Bob (who talked to me about sushi) and Lynn
- all the others whose names and faces have faded over the ensuing years, but whose souls still shine brightly and continue to light my way
"Naughty"
John (who should have known better than to ask someone to do the things you expected of me - Shame on you!)
Marie and Betsy (who were never really my friends)
Marina (who was a troubled soul in her own right)
Laura (who was also troubled but drew me a beautiful Christmas card one year)
Karen (who had a very hard time, too)
- and all of the creeps who said one thing and then did another to me despite what they continued to profess afterwards - Shame!)
I really hope everybody on both of my lists is well and happy - well, maybe not that happy for the "naughty" list - and I certainly do not wish any of them any evil or pain in their lives although life, being what it is, provides those things despite best wishes and efforts.
There is still so much to tell about those years but it has to wait for the resurfacing of old memories and my ability to find some way to express it all appropriately before it can be told. Until then, the tales are silent and the pen paralyzed in a haze of forgetfulness and the desire to, finally, leave all of this permanently behind.
Sunday, September 10, 2006
Some Of My Everyday Heroes
It is late and very quiet outside, which is a good thing I suppose, and I am winding down the day here at the computer. Earlier today I had lunch with Mike and our Dad (our step-mother was home sick from some flu bug) and it has been, all told, a very good day.
Lunch was relatively calm. Mike was not quite as manic as he has been over the past few days, although still very "off-the-wall" as a result of not taking his meds. So, while Mike went to have a smoke (and a chat with his rather ethereal companions) Dad and I had a chance to talk a little. It was really an interesting conversation in that, since I am now taking a military history master's level course, many of Dad's tales of life and work in the Air Force have taken on a new signifigance for me. We were discussing the difference between genuine heroes and those individuals who merely want to be heroes that usually end up costing others more than it is worth in order to build themselves up. Dad referred to it as the "Audie Murphy " complex and said that it was the difference between heroes and "damned-heroes," a phrase employed to describe the self-interested so-and-so's whose primary interest was/is in being seen as being what they, intrinsically, are not, which are the types of people who are the real heroes. Anyway, I found the conversation and the concepts, personality-types, etc. very interesting.
Schmoo (aka "Mottle") is sitting to one side of me lashing her tail around just enough to let me know she is displeased with me for not protecting her from medicine time and Bootsie. I know she will forgive me soon enough, but it is going to be rough because Bootsie is presently incarcerated in the room she considers her own private sanctuary and this is adding to her ire. She will feel better after we get to have a major snuggle and purr session later on. It is really very special and relaxing to fall asleep to the sounds of happy purring coming from a cat who just loves to be loved. When we adopted Mottle she had just finished raising a litter of kittens and, according to the head of the shelter we got her from, had not had a very happy life up until then. I wish I could show you pictures of her the first night we had her home. She was so thrilled at being with us she actually did an ecstatic little somersault as I let her on the bed and petted her. She has been a joy and a trial - in the way of all pets and children - from that day forth and we could not possibly think of life without our youngest "baby." It really bothers me that so many people want kittens and will not even consider adopting an older kitty. We have had both and the love and gratitude from the older adoptees is just as special and precious as the love from a pussy cat raised from kitten-hood in the same home. There are a lot of wonderful cats out there who would be so grateful for a good home and even a little love; they have so much love to give in return, too!
My nephew has just emailed me a paper he wrote for proof reading. He is a really great kid and I am so proud of him I could just about pop. He has had a lot of difficulties in his relatively short life and he is overcoming them one by one and I am proud that he is doing this, and doing it to the best of his ability. I just hope everyone he meets is able to come to this same realization, too. In fact, I am tempted to not correct anything in his paper, as it reflects his true nature more accurately untouched, than I could possibly convey by "cleaning" it up for him. I'll have to think about how to do this and then proceed delicately. And to think, he is asking his fat old auntie for help!
I have to email his mother now, and let her know how very proud I am of her son; my nephew. I am looking forward to helping him get this paper whipped into shape and finished in time to hand in. (Happy auntie tears are also about to happen, so I need to sign off.)
I hope everyone reading this has gotten to feel, or will feel at some point, this way about someone they love, too.
Lunch was relatively calm. Mike was not quite as manic as he has been over the past few days, although still very "off-the-wall" as a result of not taking his meds. So, while Mike went to have a smoke (and a chat with his rather ethereal companions) Dad and I had a chance to talk a little. It was really an interesting conversation in that, since I am now taking a military history master's level course, many of Dad's tales of life and work in the Air Force have taken on a new signifigance for me. We were discussing the difference between genuine heroes and those individuals who merely want to be heroes that usually end up costing others more than it is worth in order to build themselves up. Dad referred to it as the "Audie Murphy " complex and said that it was the difference between heroes and "damned-heroes," a phrase employed to describe the self-interested so-and-so's whose primary interest was/is in being seen as being what they, intrinsically, are not, which are the types of people who are the real heroes. Anyway, I found the conversation and the concepts, personality-types, etc. very interesting.
Schmoo (aka "Mottle") is sitting to one side of me lashing her tail around just enough to let me know she is displeased with me for not protecting her from medicine time and Bootsie. I know she will forgive me soon enough, but it is going to be rough because Bootsie is presently incarcerated in the room she considers her own private sanctuary and this is adding to her ire. She will feel better after we get to have a major snuggle and purr session later on. It is really very special and relaxing to fall asleep to the sounds of happy purring coming from a cat who just loves to be loved. When we adopted Mottle she had just finished raising a litter of kittens and, according to the head of the shelter we got her from, had not had a very happy life up until then. I wish I could show you pictures of her the first night we had her home. She was so thrilled at being with us she actually did an ecstatic little somersault as I let her on the bed and petted her. She has been a joy and a trial - in the way of all pets and children - from that day forth and we could not possibly think of life without our youngest "baby." It really bothers me that so many people want kittens and will not even consider adopting an older kitty. We have had both and the love and gratitude from the older adoptees is just as special and precious as the love from a pussy cat raised from kitten-hood in the same home. There are a lot of wonderful cats out there who would be so grateful for a good home and even a little love; they have so much love to give in return, too!
My nephew has just emailed me a paper he wrote for proof reading. He is a really great kid and I am so proud of him I could just about pop. He has had a lot of difficulties in his relatively short life and he is overcoming them one by one and I am proud that he is doing this, and doing it to the best of his ability. I just hope everyone he meets is able to come to this same realization, too. In fact, I am tempted to not correct anything in his paper, as it reflects his true nature more accurately untouched, than I could possibly convey by "cleaning" it up for him. I'll have to think about how to do this and then proceed delicately. And to think, he is asking his fat old auntie for help!
I have to email his mother now, and let her know how very proud I am of her son; my nephew. I am looking forward to helping him get this paper whipped into shape and finished in time to hand in. (Happy auntie tears are also about to happen, so I need to sign off.)
I hope everyone reading this has gotten to feel, or will feel at some point, this way about someone they love, too.
Long Days and Short Nights
Today seemed unusually long, although in retrospect, and I think that is because it was a transition day. Transition from grief and worry to taking care of errands and tending to homework. I am still concerned about my brother and his health, but I and my dad and step-mother will be seeing him tomorrow for lunch and he says he is feeling a lot better. So I will hope the symptoms were not of anything too serious and relegate my worries to the quiet, internal struggle they usually exist as once again. It will be nice to see Mike and to be able to talk to him in person, although the conversation will have to be kept rather light in consideration of his current state of mind. And, as I mentioned, there are always plenty of things to distract me from such worries if I choose to let them.
We have been experiencing some very jealous behavior toward one another on the part of our cats. Mottle chases Tiger out of the living room if I am in it and Bootsie chases her out of the room if "Daddy-cat" is anywhere around. Callie mostly stays out of it except to blindside one or the other of the three other kitties, which is her joy in life - she likes to watch them jump out of their skins when she ambushes them, mostly with lots of noise. We are extra worried about Tiger, who has not been eating very well, because of the approaching kidney failure. He still seems fairly hale and hearty, so perhaps it is just the weather or the time of year rather than any trouble elsewhere. He is a very sweet kitty and I love it when he squeeks at me and then purrs in my ear from the back of my chair. He gets such a look of pleasure whenever I scratch his chin it makes me wish I could somehow get the moment on film but as soon as I head for the camera Tiger disappears into another room and so the moment is lost. :-(
It's as though I can feel winter approaching and something inside of me is objecting and I don't know why. Perhaps it is just the residue of worry and upset from the past few days, or maybe it is the onset of an upset tummy, rather than any serious mood being brought on by weather again.
Kitty snores are issuing from Bootsie as he sleeps on the loveseat near the desk. Fortunately it is fairly quiet because it is so steady it would absolutely send me screaming in distraction if it were any louder. As it is, it is "cute." Louder it would become "a silence devoutly to be wished."
The class discussion page has been silent for sometime now and I think people have probably been out getting in the last few remnants of summer living the weather today has afforded all of us. It is such a great way to keep in touch and to let each other know what is happening in our lives, a chance to be back in touch without any major commitment of time or effort, and I hope people will keep up with it between now and our next reunion.
I better head for bed now, as I need to be up in only a few hours. I will be having a "usual" Sunday, breakfast out with a friend - a regular practice we have indulged in for years - and it should be a lot of fun as she informed me this evening that she has a lot to talk about. Then it will be off to lunch with Mike, Dad, and Mary Ellen at Mike's favorite pizza place. Hopefully, if Mike is a little more with it than the past several days, it will be a relaxed time where we can all catch up with what's been happening in our lives lately. We're really a pretty "in touch" family, but even then you can end up missing some news or other, so it will be nice to see them.
The only thing I truly regret about worrying is that it drains me to the point of having to struggle to find any poetry within myself. I guess I will wait until I am better rested before I try to compose anything new for the general amusement of myself or any others who may enjoy reading whatever I write.
I hope everyone else has a good night and a good day tomorrow as well.
We have been experiencing some very jealous behavior toward one another on the part of our cats. Mottle chases Tiger out of the living room if I am in it and Bootsie chases her out of the room if "Daddy-cat" is anywhere around. Callie mostly stays out of it except to blindside one or the other of the three other kitties, which is her joy in life - she likes to watch them jump out of their skins when she ambushes them, mostly with lots of noise. We are extra worried about Tiger, who has not been eating very well, because of the approaching kidney failure. He still seems fairly hale and hearty, so perhaps it is just the weather or the time of year rather than any trouble elsewhere. He is a very sweet kitty and I love it when he squeeks at me and then purrs in my ear from the back of my chair. He gets such a look of pleasure whenever I scratch his chin it makes me wish I could somehow get the moment on film but as soon as I head for the camera Tiger disappears into another room and so the moment is lost. :-(
It's as though I can feel winter approaching and something inside of me is objecting and I don't know why. Perhaps it is just the residue of worry and upset from the past few days, or maybe it is the onset of an upset tummy, rather than any serious mood being brought on by weather again.
Kitty snores are issuing from Bootsie as he sleeps on the loveseat near the desk. Fortunately it is fairly quiet because it is so steady it would absolutely send me screaming in distraction if it were any louder. As it is, it is "cute." Louder it would become "a silence devoutly to be wished."
The class discussion page has been silent for sometime now and I think people have probably been out getting in the last few remnants of summer living the weather today has afforded all of us. It is such a great way to keep in touch and to let each other know what is happening in our lives, a chance to be back in touch without any major commitment of time or effort, and I hope people will keep up with it between now and our next reunion.
I better head for bed now, as I need to be up in only a few hours. I will be having a "usual" Sunday, breakfast out with a friend - a regular practice we have indulged in for years - and it should be a lot of fun as she informed me this evening that she has a lot to talk about. Then it will be off to lunch with Mike, Dad, and Mary Ellen at Mike's favorite pizza place. Hopefully, if Mike is a little more with it than the past several days, it will be a relaxed time where we can all catch up with what's been happening in our lives lately. We're really a pretty "in touch" family, but even then you can end up missing some news or other, so it will be nice to see them.
The only thing I truly regret about worrying is that it drains me to the point of having to struggle to find any poetry within myself. I guess I will wait until I am better rested before I try to compose anything new for the general amusement of myself or any others who may enjoy reading whatever I write.
I hope everyone else has a good night and a good day tomorrow as well.
Friday, September 08, 2006
So Much Happens In So Short A Time
As I emailed a former classmate from high school to thank her for keeping my brother in her prayers, I explained to her briefly what the very real dangers of the situation are and ended up feeling like I had punched myself in the stomach. My brother could actually die because he is too delusional to accept help from those of us who love him. My God, we could actually lose Mike. As an older sister I have always had this quirky sense that all of the really "bad" stuff was supposed to happen to me first; that I was not supposed to have to watch my younger brother and sisters go through all of these horrible things. Reality has trumped that and I really feel that it is still supposed to have been my way instead, but cannot seem to rearrange fate to fall in line with my opinions.
For anyone reading my blog today, please keep my poor brother in your thoughts and prayers (and my sister, too). I am hoping he will be around for a few more good family moments yet to come.
For anyone reading my blog today, please keep my poor brother in your thoughts and prayers (and my sister, too). I am hoping he will be around for a few more good family moments yet to come.
Thursday, September 07, 2006
Finding Michael
My brother is off the wall today. He was diagnosed as schizophrenic many, many years ago when we were all still quite young. The years have wrought many changes in Mike but no cure yet for the demons that plague his mind. It is difficult to express the time warp I always feel as though I exist in whenever it comes to my brother. It's as if, while the rest of the world grew older, Mike just sort of stayed the same, somehow stuck back at the moment the mental illness took over his mind. It is not that Mike appears not to have aged, and he has matured in certain ways and is very much a troubled middle-aged man and no longer a boy; it is just his imagination that has persistently refused to mature and is what reminds me strongly of my brother while we were in our teens. It is hard to convince people who did not know Mike before what a really great and intelligent guy he is because little of that still shows through the rotting teeth, the tobacco stained fingers and nails, the clothes used liberally as napkin or handkerchief, the sinking eyes, the fetid breath, the stubbled chin and skin infections, the discussions with unseen people who Mike is conversant with, and so on. Sometimes, when I take him out to lunch and he has one of these conversations, he will laugh as if at some terribly witty and erudite joke. I have taken to interrupting "them" and asking Mike what the joke is because I could really use a good laugh right then.
When he is not too out of it, Mike will repeat the joke, prefaced with the phrase, "I was just thinking about..." which says to me that he is at least aware on some level that these conversations are taking place only in his head and not in "real time." When he is very out of it he may choose to ignore my inquiry or become volatile and hostile and tell me to mind my own business. At these times it can be very difficult to placate Mike and get him back into some semblence of reality, but all of this does not concern me as much as the times he describes what could be the physical precursors or symptoms of a serious medical problem, like a heart attack or stroke. That is where we are today. Mike just told me about some pain he experienced in his chest area and then went on to say how crummy he's been feeling for days; how unusually exhausted. When I asked him when was the last time he had an EKG, he flipped. Time for me to call in the back up team and retire to the sidelines. Hopefully Dad or some of the other people on Mike's support team will be able to get him into the appropriate doctors, etc., because it's a sure bet he will not let me get him there. Such is life with schizophrenia - it eats the soul and destroys the mind trapping its victims in another dimension where the alternate reality is more frightening than this one, just better disguised.
I feel like crying right now. No matter how old and crabby we get, he will always be my younger brother and I will always love him. It is amazing how much heartbreak one human cardiac muscle can contend with during a lifetime, and a little frightening, too.
For Mike -
Dear "Little" Brother,
Your older sister is worried about you today.
You have mentioned such things that
Her heart is on fire with concern and pain,
But doing a rather slow burn.
We have been down this road before.
Almost every turn and rut,
Each stone in place along the way,
Is familiar to me.
I know where I tripped the last thousand times
We walked this path.
I have learned when to slow down to stay a curve
And, sometimes, when to get off of the road altogether.
Do you remember the games we played
When we were little
And it rained after school?
We would make an entire world out of an
Enormous can of blue Playdough;
Houses and cars, trees and flowers,
And people them with characters that had their
Naissance in our fingers; little men and women
(we even gave the little women "breasts"!),
Cats and dogs, horses and birds.
We gave them all names
And played and played for hours!
There were so many rainy days
And so many worlds!
But, it never occurred to me
You might get lost in one of those worlds
And would not be able to get out,
Even when the sun decided to shine again.
The sun is shining in my window right now.
I am hoping Dad has convinced you to
Take care of yourself; to see a doctor.
The sun is out, Mikey, and the rain is gone.
It is time to put the Playdough world away.
Love, Liz.
When he is not too out of it, Mike will repeat the joke, prefaced with the phrase, "I was just thinking about..." which says to me that he is at least aware on some level that these conversations are taking place only in his head and not in "real time." When he is very out of it he may choose to ignore my inquiry or become volatile and hostile and tell me to mind my own business. At these times it can be very difficult to placate Mike and get him back into some semblence of reality, but all of this does not concern me as much as the times he describes what could be the physical precursors or symptoms of a serious medical problem, like a heart attack or stroke. That is where we are today. Mike just told me about some pain he experienced in his chest area and then went on to say how crummy he's been feeling for days; how unusually exhausted. When I asked him when was the last time he had an EKG, he flipped. Time for me to call in the back up team and retire to the sidelines. Hopefully Dad or some of the other people on Mike's support team will be able to get him into the appropriate doctors, etc., because it's a sure bet he will not let me get him there. Such is life with schizophrenia - it eats the soul and destroys the mind trapping its victims in another dimension where the alternate reality is more frightening than this one, just better disguised.
I feel like crying right now. No matter how old and crabby we get, he will always be my younger brother and I will always love him. It is amazing how much heartbreak one human cardiac muscle can contend with during a lifetime, and a little frightening, too.
For Mike -
Dear "Little" Brother,
Your older sister is worried about you today.
You have mentioned such things that
Her heart is on fire with concern and pain,
But doing a rather slow burn.
We have been down this road before.
Almost every turn and rut,
Each stone in place along the way,
Is familiar to me.
I know where I tripped the last thousand times
We walked this path.
I have learned when to slow down to stay a curve
And, sometimes, when to get off of the road altogether.
Do you remember the games we played
When we were little
And it rained after school?
We would make an entire world out of an
Enormous can of blue Playdough;
Houses and cars, trees and flowers,
And people them with characters that had their
Naissance in our fingers; little men and women
(we even gave the little women "breasts"!),
Cats and dogs, horses and birds.
We gave them all names
And played and played for hours!
There were so many rainy days
And so many worlds!
But, it never occurred to me
You might get lost in one of those worlds
And would not be able to get out,
Even when the sun decided to shine again.
The sun is shining in my window right now.
I am hoping Dad has convinced you to
Take care of yourself; to see a doctor.
The sun is out, Mikey, and the rain is gone.
It is time to put the Playdough world away.
Love, Liz.
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
Tears For a Clown?
There are two things I have been thinking about over the last couple of days, one funny and one very sad. They have absolutely nothing to do with one another yet they are juxtaposed in my mind and the thought of one seems to lead to the thought of the other whether they are related or not. I will deal with the sad one first:
On Monday the news came through about the untimely death of Steve Irwin, Australia's "Crocodile Hunter." Although I lost interest in his show after he took his infant son into the enclosure with him WHILE HE FED THE UGLY BUGGERS, I felt a real grief when I learned the news of his death. I have always found it curious that we feel so strongly about our celebrities because most of us have never even been in the same room with any of these people much less intimately acquainted enough with any of them to have been able to claim any sort of relationship at all. Yet, we grieve and rejoice along with them and for them. I will leave the whys and why nots to the psychologists and sociologists and just say that I , too, do that very thing. So what was it about Steve Irwin that brought about the tears that suprised my face the other morning? After taking a few days, reading some of the tributes, and the single criticism (from Germaine Greer who apparently, feeling the waning of her own star, feels the need for attention so greatly as to take any opportunity to command some), and getting my head around my own emotional reaction, I have decided it was because he was in the category of extra or ultra-human.
Steve Irwin was larger than life. He was passionate about Australia and her wildlife, passionate about the world and its wildlife, and passionate and proud of his family. I cried because he was a member of my world family and I will miss his being there whether I had any cravings to watch him saddle another crocodile or not. My heart goes out to his wife and children. I hope their last words to one another were ones of love and I hope his wife will always cherish her memories of his liveliness, his passion for animals and environmental issues, and his love and pride in his family - especially his two children. I will also hope that, given the nature of what they both had chosen to pursue in life, that they had acknowledged the possibility of something like this occurring at the very beginning and had prepared for it as well as one can. His children will have some very large shoes to fill as they get older and it is difficult to imagine they will not also be as passionate and alive as their father was during his lifetime.
His life was too short, his death tragic and odd beyond words, but Steve Irwin truly touched the world and all of its inhabitants in a very special and powerful way and no one can take that away from either Steve or his family. My thoughts and prayers are with all of his family this week as they gather and mourn their loss and try to pick up the shattered memories of a man they all knew well and loved dearly. I hope God is very kind to them today and in the days to come.
On to the strange companion my mind created for the tribute above:
Sometimes, when he hasn't taken the time to think or ask, my nephew will still come out with little words and phrases that really grab the imagination. This is something he has done since he was first learning to talk and his mother and aunts and Grampy have derived a lot of amusement from his little glitches. Imagine my delight when his mother imparted this little gem to me - Patty and the kids were in the car when Brad accused her of driving erratically, only this is not the way it came out. What he actually said to her was that she was driving "erotically." Patty, being one of a trio of evil sisters, immediately broke into her own rendition of that wierd song, "I'm Too Sexy." This of course embarrassed the children, but they all had fun with it and the matter was forgotten until Patty mentioned it to me. (Hee, hee, hee!) Of course, I was off and running with it, as the thought of erotic driving actually has a great deal of a rather peculiar appeal. (Ohhhh, yes, yes! Mmmmh hmmmm! Oh, oh, oh! Hey, out of the way, Road Hog!) Well, anyway, you can at least sort of get the picture. This is typical of much of the amusement we all derive from life and from one another. It is not derisive in nature nor is it intended as any sort of criticism. It is just a part of the fun a loving family has together and it is a part of what lets each of us know how special we are to the family as a whole. Of course Brad blushed and laughed as Auntie Liz carried on for a moment or two and then threatened to write about it (hee, hee, hee!), but he is a pretty good sport about being teased unmercifully by the female branch of his family, so he survived.
In looking over these two seemingly diverse topics, I think I see why they have stayed in my thoughts so intimately entwined, they are both about families; one mine, the other of someone I have never met. Although it is unlikely such a loss to my family would ever touch Steve Irwin's family, there is a bond, nevertheless, and I know how they are feeling as we have lost loved ones as well. That seemingly insignificant episode of teasing between mother and son, aunt and nephew, is a large part of what has been taken from the Irwin family this week. Great moments create history but it is those funny, silly, precious moments of mistakes, acceptance and laughter together that really define our relationships and it is all of those moments, now stilled forever, of interplay between Steve and his family - particularly his children - that are gone forever. I imagine that, at some future date, should his son decide to follow his sister in following their father's footsteps, that the world will watch as the young man, son of the famous Steve Irwin, demonstrates that, though wild, stingrays are actually very fascinating creatures as long as you are able to understand them and respect their space. You see, the true legacy of a man like Steve Irwin is not that his children will seek revenge against the species that caused his demise, but that they will strive to understand it, communicate with it, and protect it as the natural treasure it is to this world. They will know absolutely that the stingray that killed their dad was only panicking, trying to escape and survive, and had no wish to deprive the whole of humanity and the natural world of one of their greatest advocates.
On Monday the news came through about the untimely death of Steve Irwin, Australia's "Crocodile Hunter." Although I lost interest in his show after he took his infant son into the enclosure with him WHILE HE FED THE UGLY BUGGERS, I felt a real grief when I learned the news of his death. I have always found it curious that we feel so strongly about our celebrities because most of us have never even been in the same room with any of these people much less intimately acquainted enough with any of them to have been able to claim any sort of relationship at all. Yet, we grieve and rejoice along with them and for them. I will leave the whys and why nots to the psychologists and sociologists and just say that I , too, do that very thing. So what was it about Steve Irwin that brought about the tears that suprised my face the other morning? After taking a few days, reading some of the tributes, and the single criticism (from Germaine Greer who apparently, feeling the waning of her own star, feels the need for attention so greatly as to take any opportunity to command some), and getting my head around my own emotional reaction, I have decided it was because he was in the category of extra or ultra-human.
Steve Irwin was larger than life. He was passionate about Australia and her wildlife, passionate about the world and its wildlife, and passionate and proud of his family. I cried because he was a member of my world family and I will miss his being there whether I had any cravings to watch him saddle another crocodile or not. My heart goes out to his wife and children. I hope their last words to one another were ones of love and I hope his wife will always cherish her memories of his liveliness, his passion for animals and environmental issues, and his love and pride in his family - especially his two children. I will also hope that, given the nature of what they both had chosen to pursue in life, that they had acknowledged the possibility of something like this occurring at the very beginning and had prepared for it as well as one can. His children will have some very large shoes to fill as they get older and it is difficult to imagine they will not also be as passionate and alive as their father was during his lifetime.
His life was too short, his death tragic and odd beyond words, but Steve Irwin truly touched the world and all of its inhabitants in a very special and powerful way and no one can take that away from either Steve or his family. My thoughts and prayers are with all of his family this week as they gather and mourn their loss and try to pick up the shattered memories of a man they all knew well and loved dearly. I hope God is very kind to them today and in the days to come.
On to the strange companion my mind created for the tribute above:
Sometimes, when he hasn't taken the time to think or ask, my nephew will still come out with little words and phrases that really grab the imagination. This is something he has done since he was first learning to talk and his mother and aunts and Grampy have derived a lot of amusement from his little glitches. Imagine my delight when his mother imparted this little gem to me - Patty and the kids were in the car when Brad accused her of driving erratically, only this is not the way it came out. What he actually said to her was that she was driving "erotically." Patty, being one of a trio of evil sisters, immediately broke into her own rendition of that wierd song, "I'm Too Sexy." This of course embarrassed the children, but they all had fun with it and the matter was forgotten until Patty mentioned it to me. (Hee, hee, hee!) Of course, I was off and running with it, as the thought of erotic driving actually has a great deal of a rather peculiar appeal. (Ohhhh, yes, yes! Mmmmh hmmmm! Oh, oh, oh! Hey, out of the way, Road Hog!) Well, anyway, you can at least sort of get the picture. This is typical of much of the amusement we all derive from life and from one another. It is not derisive in nature nor is it intended as any sort of criticism. It is just a part of the fun a loving family has together and it is a part of what lets each of us know how special we are to the family as a whole. Of course Brad blushed and laughed as Auntie Liz carried on for a moment or two and then threatened to write about it (hee, hee, hee!), but he is a pretty good sport about being teased unmercifully by the female branch of his family, so he survived.
In looking over these two seemingly diverse topics, I think I see why they have stayed in my thoughts so intimately entwined, they are both about families; one mine, the other of someone I have never met. Although it is unlikely such a loss to my family would ever touch Steve Irwin's family, there is a bond, nevertheless, and I know how they are feeling as we have lost loved ones as well. That seemingly insignificant episode of teasing between mother and son, aunt and nephew, is a large part of what has been taken from the Irwin family this week. Great moments create history but it is those funny, silly, precious moments of mistakes, acceptance and laughter together that really define our relationships and it is all of those moments, now stilled forever, of interplay between Steve and his family - particularly his children - that are gone forever. I imagine that, at some future date, should his son decide to follow his sister in following their father's footsteps, that the world will watch as the young man, son of the famous Steve Irwin, demonstrates that, though wild, stingrays are actually very fascinating creatures as long as you are able to understand them and respect their space. You see, the true legacy of a man like Steve Irwin is not that his children will seek revenge against the species that caused his demise, but that they will strive to understand it, communicate with it, and protect it as the natural treasure it is to this world. They will know absolutely that the stingray that killed their dad was only panicking, trying to escape and survive, and had no wish to deprive the whole of humanity and the natural world of one of their greatest advocates.
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
Why Are People So Odd?
Maybe I have a face that compels people to confide in me, although it is usually when my boyfriend is with me so perhaps it is he, and not I, who bring this out in people. Part of the strangeness of it is that these revelations usually come from people you would not normally think of as needing someone to talk to about such things. These people doing the confiding are generally fairly well off financially and have nice, comfortable homes and no financial worries in their lives. They are looking forward to very comfy retirements and will never have to worry about whether or not they can pay a particular bill or if they can afford their groceries. Many of them pay in spades for their security by having developed little rituals of "saving money" that amount to pennies over the years, as if a penny were too important to lose, while they win and lose the "pounds" on a regular basis and with little or no concern as to the fact that a small, third-world nation could have existed for a month on what was just squandered and, at the same time, they count the squares of toilet paper they are using to make sure they do not use too much of it at any one time.
They buy and sell their riches but begrudge themselves the merest luxury of really tasty food, they invest in jewelry or works of art, pamper themselves with lovely homes, etc. but then turn around and buy the cheapest possible paper towels, tissue, soaps, or bread all with the obvious intent of having saved themselves "real" money. Maybe, all told over a ten year period, such habits will have saved a few hundred dollars but thousands and thousands were spent or lost elsewhere by these same people. It is a curious mindset and it is one I cannot really connect with easily. This does not mean any of these people are lazy or have never worked hard to earn these pleasures for themselves it is just that, somewhere along the way, I think they became superstitious about their wealth and pay a strange price as a self-imposed condition of being allowed to enjoy what they have accumulated. Sorry, but I will always buy the brand of paper towels that actually absorbs liquid instead of merely pushing it around. I prefer the brand of toilet paper I feel is sturdy enough to "do the job" without too much compromise of any of my more delicate sensibilities. I will buy the bread that I think tastes the best and is best for me and I will not miss a wealth of jewels because I never craved owning many of them and likely would choose to spend that much money on a home or on people I loved rather than on baubles to show off - although they are very nice things to have. Such is the life of the financially comfortable of my acquaintance, all of whom are very nice people and caring, loving friends, it's just that they have this really odd way of relishing their many advantages. Perhaps they feel they owe this particular type of penance for some reason, that it makes them worthier somehow, although to my knowledge no one, at least in my hearing, has ever even suggested they do not deserve what they and their families have worked so hard to achieve for themselves. Maybe, for the holidays, I will put together several care packages for these poor unfortunates. The packages will include all of the everyday luxuries that my friends feel so compelled to deny themselves and, on the top of my list, will be a really good vintage of toilet paper - the kind that stays in one piece, tears properly at the perforations, and does not excoriate skin in the using of it.
All of this observation of others makes me wonder what some of my own peculiarities may be, as I am hardly the one to pass judgement on that since I cannot tell what is odd about myself as it probably seems perfectly normal to me, whatever it is. I'm not too sure I really want to invite such comments but it seems only fair after my earlier diatribe. I know I wiggle my nose when it itches and I worry incessantly at times until I have checked in with everybody and found them safe and as well as can be expected. Those things I know about, it is the ones I am blissfully unaware of that the thought of having them revealed scares the heck out of me. I tremble in an unpleasant anticipation of the moment these oddities in my character are pointed out. Oh well, I suppose I will survive the critique although I may take some of my more treasured peculiarities underground so they do not draw any further attention.
(Revised March 17,2007 by the author.)
They buy and sell their riches but begrudge themselves the merest luxury of really tasty food, they invest in jewelry or works of art, pamper themselves with lovely homes, etc. but then turn around and buy the cheapest possible paper towels, tissue, soaps, or bread all with the obvious intent of having saved themselves "real" money. Maybe, all told over a ten year period, such habits will have saved a few hundred dollars but thousands and thousands were spent or lost elsewhere by these same people. It is a curious mindset and it is one I cannot really connect with easily. This does not mean any of these people are lazy or have never worked hard to earn these pleasures for themselves it is just that, somewhere along the way, I think they became superstitious about their wealth and pay a strange price as a self-imposed condition of being allowed to enjoy what they have accumulated. Sorry, but I will always buy the brand of paper towels that actually absorbs liquid instead of merely pushing it around. I prefer the brand of toilet paper I feel is sturdy enough to "do the job" without too much compromise of any of my more delicate sensibilities. I will buy the bread that I think tastes the best and is best for me and I will not miss a wealth of jewels because I never craved owning many of them and likely would choose to spend that much money on a home or on people I loved rather than on baubles to show off - although they are very nice things to have. Such is the life of the financially comfortable of my acquaintance, all of whom are very nice people and caring, loving friends, it's just that they have this really odd way of relishing their many advantages. Perhaps they feel they owe this particular type of penance for some reason, that it makes them worthier somehow, although to my knowledge no one, at least in my hearing, has ever even suggested they do not deserve what they and their families have worked so hard to achieve for themselves. Maybe, for the holidays, I will put together several care packages for these poor unfortunates. The packages will include all of the everyday luxuries that my friends feel so compelled to deny themselves and, on the top of my list, will be a really good vintage of toilet paper - the kind that stays in one piece, tears properly at the perforations, and does not excoriate skin in the using of it.
All of this observation of others makes me wonder what some of my own peculiarities may be, as I am hardly the one to pass judgement on that since I cannot tell what is odd about myself as it probably seems perfectly normal to me, whatever it is. I'm not too sure I really want to invite such comments but it seems only fair after my earlier diatribe. I know I wiggle my nose when it itches and I worry incessantly at times until I have checked in with everybody and found them safe and as well as can be expected. Those things I know about, it is the ones I am blissfully unaware of that the thought of having them revealed scares the heck out of me. I tremble in an unpleasant anticipation of the moment these oddities in my character are pointed out. Oh well, I suppose I will survive the critique although I may take some of my more treasured peculiarities underground so they do not draw any further attention.
(Revised March 17,2007 by the author.)
Monday, September 04, 2006
If a Tree Falls In a Forest and There Is Nobody There...
...It still makes one heck of a noise.
Today is a day for strange moods and odd thoughts which I wish did not occur quite as often as they seem to lately but, as it is those strange moments that have fueled so many of my writings, I really cannot complain about them too vigorously.
We have just returned from visiting some friends and a rather infirm relative of my boyfriend's, so the day is a mixture of happy and sad, bright and dull, dark and light feelings and moments. The clouds blowing across New England today seem reflective of these things as well. Multiple layers of different types and sizes of clouds, some dark and threatening, others light and wispy - as if they were just out for a day of fun in the Autumnal skies. As usual, the weather does seem to have an effect upon my emotional state and I feel as if I have been caught within a drift of clouds and circumstance all day, so far.
It is not merely a fancy on my part that the day is like this, as the moods of our various cats, my boyfriend's mood, the moods of our friends and their children, the entire day - bag and baggage - are all following this same trend, this path that is winding and crooked as any old back-country dirt trail, to end up God only knows where by the time evening settles in and the hoped for peace of a night's rest is regained for another day.
My Dad and step-mother finally read part of my blog and, it seems, really enjoyed what they read. I am glad because one of the things I was hoping to accomplish with this blog was to give some enjoyment to those reading my ramblings, stories, and poetry. So, thus far, mission (at least partially) accomplished. The clouds are still quite grey but the rest of the day seems to have lightened up a bit - I was not kidding about my moods and the weather being very closely tuned to one another!
This seems like a good time to make myself a list of some of the things I want to write about in future bloggings - our old babysitters, Wassi and Hilda; our housekeeper from my early childhood years, Elizabeth; some more short works of fiction; both of my novels, their progress and - perhaps - a few choice excerpts; more about our cats; more about my family; a little something about each of the many friends I have had to share parts of my life with and without whom my life would have been far less rich and rewarding; our backyard; my memories of places I have lived and visited; stories from school; stories from work; and as much poetry as I can possibly manage. That should cover quite a few entries and a lot of writing and, if I do not find any of those to be sufficiently interesting at any given moment, more ramblings and rantings as they happen to occur to me.
Perhaps I will tell a few of the tales behind some of my poems or, possibly, record a few tales not yet recalled in order to write new poems about those stories. As opening my eyes each day brings with it a whole new crop of potential stories, poems, and experiences there will be plenty to write about, many new facts and fancies to record, and many new ideas to launch into the realm of the written word.
Now, if there could just be a few days of brilliant sunshine while I finished my first homework assignments for school everything would be as close to perfect as possible.
Stranger Than Dreams In the Night
Thoughts stranger than the dreams
I leave behind in the night
Have been creeping and crawling around in my brain.
All the long day they constantly fight,
I must shake the clouds out before my mind rains
Tales of such strangeness, woe, and despair
That everyone reading them feels as if they are drowning in air.
Normally sane, I revel in the thought
Of all of the troubles such thoughts have wrought,
And the trials and tremblings, betwixt and between,
You can tell from my state it's almost Halloween.
(So it isn't very good - suffer!) (Revised March 17, 2007 by the author.)
Today is a day for strange moods and odd thoughts which I wish did not occur quite as often as they seem to lately but, as it is those strange moments that have fueled so many of my writings, I really cannot complain about them too vigorously.
We have just returned from visiting some friends and a rather infirm relative of my boyfriend's, so the day is a mixture of happy and sad, bright and dull, dark and light feelings and moments. The clouds blowing across New England today seem reflective of these things as well. Multiple layers of different types and sizes of clouds, some dark and threatening, others light and wispy - as if they were just out for a day of fun in the Autumnal skies. As usual, the weather does seem to have an effect upon my emotional state and I feel as if I have been caught within a drift of clouds and circumstance all day, so far.
It is not merely a fancy on my part that the day is like this, as the moods of our various cats, my boyfriend's mood, the moods of our friends and their children, the entire day - bag and baggage - are all following this same trend, this path that is winding and crooked as any old back-country dirt trail, to end up God only knows where by the time evening settles in and the hoped for peace of a night's rest is regained for another day.
My Dad and step-mother finally read part of my blog and, it seems, really enjoyed what they read. I am glad because one of the things I was hoping to accomplish with this blog was to give some enjoyment to those reading my ramblings, stories, and poetry. So, thus far, mission (at least partially) accomplished. The clouds are still quite grey but the rest of the day seems to have lightened up a bit - I was not kidding about my moods and the weather being very closely tuned to one another!
This seems like a good time to make myself a list of some of the things I want to write about in future bloggings - our old babysitters, Wassi and Hilda; our housekeeper from my early childhood years, Elizabeth; some more short works of fiction; both of my novels, their progress and - perhaps - a few choice excerpts; more about our cats; more about my family; a little something about each of the many friends I have had to share parts of my life with and without whom my life would have been far less rich and rewarding; our backyard; my memories of places I have lived and visited; stories from school; stories from work; and as much poetry as I can possibly manage. That should cover quite a few entries and a lot of writing and, if I do not find any of those to be sufficiently interesting at any given moment, more ramblings and rantings as they happen to occur to me.
Perhaps I will tell a few of the tales behind some of my poems or, possibly, record a few tales not yet recalled in order to write new poems about those stories. As opening my eyes each day brings with it a whole new crop of potential stories, poems, and experiences there will be plenty to write about, many new facts and fancies to record, and many new ideas to launch into the realm of the written word.
Now, if there could just be a few days of brilliant sunshine while I finished my first homework assignments for school everything would be as close to perfect as possible.
Stranger Than Dreams In the Night
Thoughts stranger than the dreams
I leave behind in the night
Have been creeping and crawling around in my brain.
All the long day they constantly fight,
I must shake the clouds out before my mind rains
Tales of such strangeness, woe, and despair
That everyone reading them feels as if they are drowning in air.
Normally sane, I revel in the thought
Of all of the troubles such thoughts have wrought,
And the trials and tremblings, betwixt and between,
You can tell from my state it's almost Halloween.
(So it isn't very good - suffer!) (Revised March 17, 2007 by the author.)
Sunday, September 03, 2006
Time Off
It was good to take a day and not press myself to do everything. I guess I am still a little nervous about starting my master's studies.
I have just learned that a former classmate's son will be posted to Iraq within the next week and it makes my heart sore, for her son and for her, to think of yet another American soldier fighting to, essentially, protect Bush's oil. This is so much about profits for the military-industrial complex more than anything else, although there are many considerations involved. My friend's son has three children of his own and, although I do not know their ages, I can imagine how they must be feeling right now after having said "Good-bye," to my own father, many years ago, as he headed for Vietnam. So, my heart, thoughts, and prayers this morning are with Pam and her family. The only comfort I can offer is to remind all of us that my Dad came back alive and well.
I was just re-reading some of my former entries and some of my poetry, too. As there has been very little of the feedback I had hoped to generate, I still have very few external resources to use in judging the quality of my poems, so I will just hope they are not too badly written and continue to impose them on all and sundry who may happen across this blog. That said, I will try to compose a brief poem right now for my friend's son and for all who have had to say good-byes without knowing when, or if, they would be seeing their loved ones again.
Feeling "Forever"
Your tears, in a place they're not usually found -
Your face, help etch your visage into my mind.
Those sad, sad tears, like mirrors,
Reflect the images in my heart, I find.
My face is damp, my heart is sore,
As you travel to a foreign shore.
It is not so much the "Good-bye" I mind,
Or even being left so unceremoniously behind,
It's the not knowing, if or when,
I will get to see your face, touch your hand,
Or hug you again.
It is times like these that cause love's pain
In mind and heart, though it would never do to
Trade it for some lesser thing,
In order to lose these tears, this ache,
This desperate need to hold you close
Fighting in my heart all other calls that
Threaten to take your life far from my reach,
Too far for my love to protect, to touch, to hold and defend
From what you are facing this day
At your journey's end.
Those sweet, rare tears, unbidden, slowly traverse
The plains of your beautiful, sad face,
Remaining suspended forever
In my heart, in my mind,
Even if what eventually follows is a joyful
Reunion embrace with you safe.
This moment will remain suspended
Forever, never to be forgotten.
Our lives are so upended
By having to say "Good-bye."
Having to live with not knowing, until some unseen future date,
If all the love we give today
Will somehow have been too late.
My heart is with you, and has always been;
You are a rampart of my life's sure fortress
Now felled in this world of pain.
Yet, that single, still tear
Remains glistening in the air
With a life of its own,
Sustaining us,
Until we can be together again.
(Revised March 17, 2007 by the author.)
I have just learned that a former classmate's son will be posted to Iraq within the next week and it makes my heart sore, for her son and for her, to think of yet another American soldier fighting to, essentially, protect Bush's oil. This is so much about profits for the military-industrial complex more than anything else, although there are many considerations involved. My friend's son has three children of his own and, although I do not know their ages, I can imagine how they must be feeling right now after having said "Good-bye," to my own father, many years ago, as he headed for Vietnam. So, my heart, thoughts, and prayers this morning are with Pam and her family. The only comfort I can offer is to remind all of us that my Dad came back alive and well.
I was just re-reading some of my former entries and some of my poetry, too. As there has been very little of the feedback I had hoped to generate, I still have very few external resources to use in judging the quality of my poems, so I will just hope they are not too badly written and continue to impose them on all and sundry who may happen across this blog. That said, I will try to compose a brief poem right now for my friend's son and for all who have had to say good-byes without knowing when, or if, they would be seeing their loved ones again.
Feeling "Forever"
Your tears, in a place they're not usually found -
Your face, help etch your visage into my mind.
Those sad, sad tears, like mirrors,
Reflect the images in my heart, I find.
My face is damp, my heart is sore,
As you travel to a foreign shore.
It is not so much the "Good-bye" I mind,
Or even being left so unceremoniously behind,
It's the not knowing, if or when,
I will get to see your face, touch your hand,
Or hug you again.
It is times like these that cause love's pain
In mind and heart, though it would never do to
Trade it for some lesser thing,
In order to lose these tears, this ache,
This desperate need to hold you close
Fighting in my heart all other calls that
Threaten to take your life far from my reach,
Too far for my love to protect, to touch, to hold and defend
From what you are facing this day
At your journey's end.
Those sweet, rare tears, unbidden, slowly traverse
The plains of your beautiful, sad face,
Remaining suspended forever
In my heart, in my mind,
Even if what eventually follows is a joyful
Reunion embrace with you safe.
This moment will remain suspended
Forever, never to be forgotten.
Our lives are so upended
By having to say "Good-bye."
Having to live with not knowing, until some unseen future date,
If all the love we give today
Will somehow have been too late.
My heart is with you, and has always been;
You are a rampart of my life's sure fortress
Now felled in this world of pain.
Yet, that single, still tear
Remains glistening in the air
With a life of its own,
Sustaining us,
Until we can be together again.
(Revised March 17, 2007 by the author.)
Friday, September 01, 2006
Why Do Kids Hate "Time Outs" When It is Just What Every Grownup Needs Now and Then?
It would be so nice to be able to say that I am writing this mid-morning, wrapped in a luxurious robe and sipping hideously expensive hot chocolate as I sigh and decide which of the many erudite and wise thoughts I should impart to any reading my wonderfully sophisticated and witty blog, but that is not the case. It is a little after 5:30AM, I am in an old, too short nightie, there is no delicious hot chocolate to be had, and both my brain and eyes are still bleary from the sleep we are not getting right now. There is also the distinct possibility that my thoughts of the moment are anything except wise and erudite which, in turn, brings into question the wit and sophistication contained herein. Ahh, the difference between imagination and reality. Some days, more than others, it is easier to understand why some people, having once escaped reality by delving too far into their own imaginations, are not eager at all to dwell once again on the plains of reality. This becomes even more understandable when the current news and political situations in various places is studied at all. A long time ago I discovered that I really did have a choice between reality and imagination and found that writing was actually the ideal bridge between the two worlds, and a sure means of egress from one to the other, as needed. Reality is the world we all must live in, whether we hone our determination to remain in a world of imagination to escape it to the point of schizophrenia or not, and imagination is the realm of rest our tired minds can fall back on now and then, when reality becomes too harsh or we are too tired to keep our brains in check. It is also a realm I think writers, maybe more so than other people, inhabit. To use my own meager offerings as an example, where else - except in your imagination - could one have tea with a dragon? So, "viva la difference!"
It was a relief to take a day off from keeping up with my blog. I am having a few little jitters here and there as the day to start my master's course approaches. I am still shaking my head a little with the feeling of having gotten here, finally. If I am this bad now, what in the world will it be like if I manage to get into law school or a PhD program? I'll have to wait to discover that, in the meantime there is a lot of work to be accomplished between the two situations. I wonder if my new courses will feel the same to me as my undergrad courses did? This may seem like a strange thing to say, I mean how are school classes suppossed to "feel," but they do produce certain mental and emotional sensations within me, and so I wonder. My boyfriend always tells me that if I am having trouble telling how something feels I should just go and wash my hands so I will be able to "feel" better (some day I will hurt him for this). But, perhaps, this is essentially what I should be doing right now - cleansing my mind and heart of the past and proceeding, unhindered, into the future. I have graduated from an undergraduate program to a graduate program and the two, while comprable, are not the same thing. I am stepping from the taxi into the limo and will, eventually, rate the champagne as well.
The colors outside the window are monochromatic blues and the birds are not even awake yet. As the weather grows more and more chilly, they seem to be sleeping in, too. The insects have all bedded down and will probably not emerge until well after sun rise, which may be why the birds, whose entire existence is wrapped up in gathering enough food to survive until the following day, have not started their own day yet. It is certainly a testimony to our abilities of survival that, for many in our group (i.e. "human"), there is no need to constantly forage for sustenance. Thus was the world of blogging able to be brought into existence. Yesterday, as I watched from a window at the back of the house, I saw a cloud of insects that seemed to be emerging from some spot in our back yard. They were hovering, seemingly aloft in a very gentle breeze, and it was impossible for me to tell whether there were thousands of them or only a few hundred. I suspect their flight patterns were what created an illusion of there being thousands and thousands of them, all newly fledged, as they seemed to drift back and forth cloud-like, into and out of the air space I could see, but they were just far enough away to keep me from telling for certain if they were a population of millions finding their genesis from some spot in the yard or if they were a smaller group employing a deceptive dance to keep members of other species guessing as to their true numbers. Either way, it was fascinating to watch for the few minutes I was able to see them and observe. For a rather unkempt space, our backyard really affords me more amusement than I ever realized until after I started this blog. It never occured to me that I was studying the space around me and noticing so much until I found that it contributed quite a lot to my writing here.
Hah! The world is now bi-chromatic (meaning two?), having evolved in the emerging light from shades of only blues to blues and greens. It is a renaissance of nature that takes place every morning for those fortunate enough to get to witness it. A newly begun day, still wet from its birth, growing rapidly and making the most of its time before it too, must give up its life to make way for the next new day's emergence. Nature, it seems, is the only force truly in control as it, with inexorable determination, keeps on apace and yields its gifts while it deprives a part of itself of existence in the process. Day, night; life, death. Time moves steadily in only one direction, despite what Stephen Hawkings and others spend their time specualting and theorizing upon, and the rest of creation moves with it in concert or not, what ever the case may ultimately prove to be.
I must cut short my ethereal moment here, as I am going to see if I can get another hour or so of sleep before "officially" beginning this new day; this gift. Hopefully, I will find things to interest me, things to keep me thinking, and things to cherish for the rest of my life today. I need to be well rested for all of that. Adieux.
It was a relief to take a day off from keeping up with my blog. I am having a few little jitters here and there as the day to start my master's course approaches. I am still shaking my head a little with the feeling of having gotten here, finally. If I am this bad now, what in the world will it be like if I manage to get into law school or a PhD program? I'll have to wait to discover that, in the meantime there is a lot of work to be accomplished between the two situations. I wonder if my new courses will feel the same to me as my undergrad courses did? This may seem like a strange thing to say, I mean how are school classes suppossed to "feel," but they do produce certain mental and emotional sensations within me, and so I wonder. My boyfriend always tells me that if I am having trouble telling how something feels I should just go and wash my hands so I will be able to "feel" better (some day I will hurt him for this). But, perhaps, this is essentially what I should be doing right now - cleansing my mind and heart of the past and proceeding, unhindered, into the future. I have graduated from an undergraduate program to a graduate program and the two, while comprable, are not the same thing. I am stepping from the taxi into the limo and will, eventually, rate the champagne as well.
The colors outside the window are monochromatic blues and the birds are not even awake yet. As the weather grows more and more chilly, they seem to be sleeping in, too. The insects have all bedded down and will probably not emerge until well after sun rise, which may be why the birds, whose entire existence is wrapped up in gathering enough food to survive until the following day, have not started their own day yet. It is certainly a testimony to our abilities of survival that, for many in our group (i.e. "human"), there is no need to constantly forage for sustenance. Thus was the world of blogging able to be brought into existence. Yesterday, as I watched from a window at the back of the house, I saw a cloud of insects that seemed to be emerging from some spot in our back yard. They were hovering, seemingly aloft in a very gentle breeze, and it was impossible for me to tell whether there were thousands of them or only a few hundred. I suspect their flight patterns were what created an illusion of there being thousands and thousands of them, all newly fledged, as they seemed to drift back and forth cloud-like, into and out of the air space I could see, but they were just far enough away to keep me from telling for certain if they were a population of millions finding their genesis from some spot in the yard or if they were a smaller group employing a deceptive dance to keep members of other species guessing as to their true numbers. Either way, it was fascinating to watch for the few minutes I was able to see them and observe. For a rather unkempt space, our backyard really affords me more amusement than I ever realized until after I started this blog. It never occured to me that I was studying the space around me and noticing so much until I found that it contributed quite a lot to my writing here.
Hah! The world is now bi-chromatic (meaning two?), having evolved in the emerging light from shades of only blues to blues and greens. It is a renaissance of nature that takes place every morning for those fortunate enough to get to witness it. A newly begun day, still wet from its birth, growing rapidly and making the most of its time before it too, must give up its life to make way for the next new day's emergence. Nature, it seems, is the only force truly in control as it, with inexorable determination, keeps on apace and yields its gifts while it deprives a part of itself of existence in the process. Day, night; life, death. Time moves steadily in only one direction, despite what Stephen Hawkings and others spend their time specualting and theorizing upon, and the rest of creation moves with it in concert or not, what ever the case may ultimately prove to be.
I must cut short my ethereal moment here, as I am going to see if I can get another hour or so of sleep before "officially" beginning this new day; this gift. Hopefully, I will find things to interest me, things to keep me thinking, and things to cherish for the rest of my life today. I need to be well rested for all of that. Adieux.
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